


Wasting

by ElenaT



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Behind the Scenes, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex, movieverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaT/pseuds/ElenaT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wants time. That’s all he wants. He is an artist, but it would take years to capture the way Enjolras’s hair glows like a halo in the morning sunlight, or the lazy, indulgent smile he sometimes shows Grantaire, made all the more special because he is sure Enjolras never shows it to anyone else. He is beautiful, jaw droppingly, heart-achingly, beautiful. What painting could capture the fire in his eyes, the set to his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw? And what about the things he can’t paint? The way it seems his hands were built exactly so, to fit perfectly in curve of Enjolras’s neck and skull. The way their bodies fit together as if they were cast from corresponding molds? What of those?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know there must be a million fics like this - I could not resist taking a crack at it. What was supposed to be a drabble turned into a monster! Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT 8 April 2013 - cellecelle has taken the time to translate this piece into Chinese! :) You can read this version here- http://archiveofourown.org/works/753151?view_full_work=true

How did they get to this? Here, at the end of the world. Grantaire knocks back one more swig of his wine, fights the bile trying to come up his throat, and brings the dusty winebottle back to the table with a clatter. The stool he’s perched on is cutting into his ass, what little of it there is, anyway. He is alone in the café.

What else should he be doing. It’s the end of the world, and Grantaire will see it with a drink in his fist and a smile on his lips. He chuckles to himself, but there is no humor in it, and drinks deeply from the bottle again. The wine cuts the bitterness building in his throat. Maybe if he keeps drinking it will stop. That, and the pricking, threatening pressure in his eyes and head.

How did they get to this?

Outside the men are busy as an upturned anthill, bustling, frantic with the death energy. Because, oh, is it coming. The thought, so familiar yet still unsettling with the cold hard truth, still causes his gut to cramp, and he lifts the bottle to his mouth again. There. Get back, you. He disgustedly slams the bottle back on the table, runs a hand through his dirty hair, trying in vain to get it to lay off of his forehead. He gives up, and puts his face in his hands.

How did they get to this? No… He knows how they got to this. It was him. His lion, his angel, his Apollo.

Enjolras.

He glances out the window, as if mere thought will summon the man to him. No such luck. He cannot see him, not from here. But he is out there. At the front of things. With the rest of them.

Waiting to die.

Grantaire suddenly chokes back a sob, but it’s more than a sob. His body spasms with urgency, and his hand reaches out, a pale claw, clutching for the wine bottle, and unhesitatingly dumping it into his mouth. Anything to make it stop. Please, anything. This is the wrong move to make – he tastes bile at the back of his mouth again, retches, and coughs, spraying wine everywhere, trying not to vomit, then recognizing the inevitable and claws for a window, a door, a bucket. Anything, goddammit.

He manages to open a shutter before the floodgates open and his stomach rejects all drink and other charitable contributions. He retches miserably and helplessly, his body heaving, on autopilot, completely out of his control. He praises the great Lord above that most of it went out the window. That thought alone makes him retch yet again.

Finally the storm passes, and Grantaire slumps against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He is exhausted, drunk, dirty. His throat is sore and burning. There’s vomit behind him and probably on his clothes and for god’s sake it’s the taste on his tongue aswell. What a way to go. He rests his head backwards against the wall, slowly closing his eyes. It’s over. It’s lost. What a way to go, to wait to die. Time then loses a bit of meaning as he floats between drunk stupor and what may have well been sleep.

Suddenly a voice rouses him,

“Grantaire!”

He sits bolt upright –or tries to atleast – his body does not want to cooperate. That voice, though. It was like rain to the dying plant. He could feel his blood quicken and his muscles try to perk up. Key word: try. As it was he remained slumped against the wall, legs acanter. He opens his eyes slowly, blearily.

Enjolras.

The angel himself, god made flesh, etcetera, stands in the doorway. And  for a moment there he does look like some devine being - backlit against the light coming through the doorway, light shining through his curly hair, shoulders squared in that damn red jacket of his. He’s just so… beautiful and just that alone makes Grantaire want to sob again.

“Grantaire!” This one is different. Scalding.

Grantaire’s eyes adjust to the light, and he sees Enjolras’s face. His heart drops, sinks down to his stomach. He almost feels compelled to grab it.

“I…” Grantaire begins, but Enjolras angrily shakes his head. Disgust lines his features. His eyes darken.

“I should have known.” He spits, body all angry hard lines.

Grantaire is trembling. He knows how he must look, hell, how he must feel, slumped in the corner, covered in his own vomit, drunk off his ass. He wants to apologize, to hide himself from this man, this great bright man who looks straight through him. He wants this so much. But he opens his mouth, and Grantaire falls out,  
  
“Does it matter? We’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’ve thrown away your life. And for what?”

The venom in his voice scares him. Enjolras, in the door way, stiffens. He seems to then a statue, carved out of marble. Stiff, perfect. Then he is moving towards Grantaire, all hard action, angry flow. He is furious. Grantaire has never seen him so mad.

He kneels down to him. His angel’s face, his god, mere inches away from him. He can see disgust and rage and something colder and blacker than anything he’s ever seen in Enjolras’s eyes. His face is flushed and angry and cold all at once. It is terrible. It scares him.

Enjolras grabs him by the shoulders, roughly shaking him, once, twice, so that his head bounces bonelessly and smacks against the wall.

“Why stay then?” He snarled, spittle flying out of his mouth onto Grantaire’s face. His body is trembling, “Get out. We are… are at the apex of a revolution…” here he chokes “…and you are in here getting shitfaced and puking all over yourself. Get out. God forbid… the man at my side… to be you.” He snarls, shoves Graintaire again, meaning to smack him against the wall, but the other man gains a sudden burst of strength and wraps his hand around a red coated forearm.

“I stayed.” Grantaire labored, the words feeling like sandpaper, flowing like syrup in his mouth. Enjolras has frozen – he takes this opportunity to use his other arm and close it around his shoulder.

“Don’t give a shit about your cause.” He spat, feeling Enjolras stiffen under his grip. “Don’t care about it.”

“Then WHY are you here?!” The blonde man nearly bellowed. His face was frantic, furious. Tears leaked out the corner of his eyes, his body was stiff, frozen. In that moment, to Grantaire, he was suddenly not a god at all. Just a man… no… not even a man. A boy. A foolish schoolboy. Wanting to change the world.  In over his head. Scared, dying. His hair was unkempt, filthy, greasy. His face was covered in dirt, cuts, god knows what else. His red jacket was stained, frayed.

He was not Apollo at all… Crashed down to earth. He was not Apollo at all… He was Icarus. Flown too close to the sun, his wax wings had melted. He had fallen.

But in that moment, Grantaire wanted nothing else.  
  
He sobbed, clutching at Enjolras , leaning forward. He slipped off the wall and straight onto him, clutching him desperately, around the shoulders, crashing his lips against Enjolras’s, trying to, his entire body weight on him. Grantaire felt the hard nip of teeth and the tenseness in Enjolras’s body, even as he collapsed into him, he groped for him desperately, grabbing, touching, anything, anything. Trying to show him, make him know how he felt… what he could not say… his eyes were closed, but that was ok, because Enjolras understood, he was kissing back, for one long moment and then…

Something sharp smacked him, and his body went slack, dazed. His eyes shot open. Enjolras hit him again. Shoved him backwards, back against the wall, before he scrambled unsteadily up to his feet.

Grantaire could feel his heart crack as he looked up at this man, no god, this _man_ , and he saw the way Enjolras’s face crumpled and he saw the tears brimming at the corner of his eyes and had his heart had a voice, it would have wailed.  
  
Enjolras trembled, looking unsteady on his feet. Even to Grantaire on the floor, He looked so small now, no lion… just a man… not even that, just a college boy. Scared. Lost. “No.” he said, suddenly, and then more firmly, “No.” He nodded, as if solidifying the words in his mouth.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire rasped. He couldn’t feel his lips.

His lion was turning, hiding his face against his mane of hair, against the sunlight. It was almost in slow motion, mocking Grantaire, as he saw every delicate muscle and movement in Enjolras shifting and moving. Out the door. Away from him. To die. From very far away Grantaire could feel his face start to ache, from where Enjolras’s blow had landed. It did not compare to the tearing occurring in his chest.

“Enjolras.” He begged. The red coated figure stopped, for one pregnant moment. Grantaire couldn’t breathe.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras said, refusing to turn. “Get out. Leave.” His voice had none of the venom it contained earlier – he was worn out. His body shuddered – Grantaire saw his shoulder’s quake briefly, and then he was walking, the sunlight obscuring him as he opened the door and it flooded into the musty café.

Was it Grantaire’s imagination, or did Enjolras wipe his eyes as he left? The door shut with a faint click and a cheery tinkle of bells, and it was all the man could do to keep his head up against the wall to watch Enjolras’s red clad back disappearing from the dusty window.

Grantaire shakily lifted a hand to the right side of his face, feeling the extent of damage that Enjolras had done to him. He was surprised to find his cheeks wet. He hadn’t realized he had been crying. With that realization, the floodgates opened. Leaning against the wall, he sobbed desperately, openly, as he hadn’t since he was but a babe. How did he get to this? Here at the end of the world?

God. God. Enjolras. God.

His mind reflexively turned to the few inches of wine left in the bottle, but Grantaire knew, with a cold raw helplessness, that not even that, will help him. What good is wine now? His heart is broken. Soon his Apollo will die. He sniffs, bringing his knees towards his chest and his hands onto his face.

 His face is on fire. His skull feels like some creature has been struggling to claw it’s way out. His eyes are heavy and feel like they are filled with sand – he closes them. His mouth is dry and tastes like vomit. The silver lining of this cloud being that his stuffed nose prevents him from smelling himself. This thought offers him no comfort.

Grantaire does not sleep – he is in far too much pain for that. Instead, he drifts. What does one think about, here, at the end of the world?

The good things, of course.

Grantaire thinks about Enjolras.


	2. Part 2

He has turned over the memories of the first time over and over in his head, until they are smooth like a polished stone – they return easily to his grasp now.

If they were to come to such a rough end, it only made sense that their start had been nearly as painful.

They had both been drunk… no… _Grantaire_ had been drunk, a state as natural to him now as breathing. Enjolras, Enjolras had been _shitfaced_. It had been back in the day when Enjolras still could lose a bit of control, where the notion of Revolution and Noble Patria were noble ideals, rather than concrete plans, certain death looming on the horizon.

There they were, just college boys, free from exams, enjoying a night off, in an old bar so much like this one, and it was just the beginning, Enjolras had been on fire, on _fire,_ the light was in his eyes and in his hair and shining through him while he talked of this things, Grantaire cared not for them but the passion in the man’s eyes took hold and he said “yes” and “uh huh” and “of course” or argued with him which was even better because Enjolras would defend his cause and get huffy and Enjolras talked and talked and ordered more wine and talked and god, he was so beautiful, so passionate, so damn _alive_.

Grantaire already knew, way back when, that he wanted him, or loved him, or as far as he could in his own way, but this… this was…. The life, the fire within him. His Apollo. Enjolras was flushed from the wine, and talking fast, slurring, nervously drinking, toasting often. Grantaire had been so fascinated, he nearly neglected his own glasses. It was enough, enough to be close to this wonderful being. One by one the rest of the Amis filtered out of the café, in twos or threes, or some with a girl in tow, and finally only Grantaire and Enjolras remained.

But then it had happened.  
  
“And these people will rise!” Enjolras had proclaimed at the end of a florid monologue in which Grantaire was the only listener, before standing unsteadily, roses in his cheeks, and, smashing his wine glass on the floor and overturning the table for further emphasis. Wine and glass everywhere. The “revolutionaries” had been unceremoniously escorted off the premises, left to weave their way through the streets.

Grantaire had no alternative motives when he offered his apartment – To him, just being in this golden man’s presence was enough – he thrived under it, as a flower would under the sun. His head was buzzing pleasantly, and Enjolras was fair to look upon.

At his apartment much the same happened. It was a sparse room – bed, bookshelf, desk, chair. Enjolras could not stay still and moved about the small room – from chair to bed to pacing about, swaying drunkenly, still filled with so much fire, so  glad to have such an attentive audience. The neverending glass of red vino Grantaire had poured for him slopped about in his hand – sporadically he would drink, forgetting and remembering over and over that it was there as he continued laying his plans to his tireless audience.

Grantaire watched him from the bed. Finally Enjolras had joined him, sitting beside him.

“But Grantaire...” he slurred in Grantaire’s ear, wrapping an arm around him. His face was flushed and slick with perspiration, and he absolutely _reeked_ of alcohol and sweat.

Grantaire, in that moment, thought it was the most wonderful thing to happen in his life.

“Grantaire…” Enjolras tried again, leaning in closer. Far too close. His breath ghosted across the other man’s ear. Grantaire, already warm from the wine, felt like he was going to burn alive, “Patria… the people will rise… I know… I know they will. All we have to do is light the… the… the…fire.” He hiccupped brieftly and pressed more insistently against Grantaire, fixing him with an intense stare, “The others will help. And you. Grantaire. You… I don’t know what to make of you…. If we can-“ hiccup “-convert the cynic…” Enjolras gave up on words, and shifted, moving his hands to clutch Grantaire’s. His face was very close. His eyes were half lidded, mouth parted.

Grantaire responded by kissing him. The moment felt right – but still, he was surprised by his own nerve, surprised at his hands that moved to cup the back of Enjolras’s  head, seemingly of their own accord. and even more when Enjolras, after a long moment of hesitation, kissed him back, artlessly and clumsily. Grantaire wanted to laugh – what would a sober Enjolras think about _that?_ He  had time to think, with amazement – _he has never done this before! –_ before he grabbed at him, his arms, his coat, anything, and felt Enjolras’s fingers grab his hair roughly and yank him forward. He could taste the wine in his mouth, and he felt so hot, he might explode.

Things began to happen very fast. He crawled on top of Enjolras, who was trying to disrobe him while keeping their mouths together. Grantaire battened away his hands, fumbling uselessly at his jacket, and Enjolras bit him – Grantaire yelped, quickly muffled by the blonde’s mouth back on his, kissing him sloppily again, and gave up on trying to unbutton Enjolras’s jacket, instead switching his attention to his belt.

In a moment he succeeded in unfastening it and hurried to yank his pants down, and took him in his hands. Enjolras was hard and at Grantaire’s touch he shakily moaned and tried to buck his hips, grabbing for Grantaire’s hair again and roughly and painfully pulling his head.

He was so fucking beautiful, flushed, aroused, his trousers pooling about his knees. His eyes were dark and hooded. Grantaire’s erection was painfully straining against his pants. He shoved Enjolras back against the bed, ignoring the angry sound he made, kneeled between his knees, and enveloped his cock in his mouth. Enjolras shuddered underneath Grantaire’s administrations – Grantaire used one hand to fumble with his own trouser buttons while the other was otherwise occupied. He was not very coordinated, but Enjolras was none the wiser as his head was thrown back and his eyes tightly closed, gasping irratically.

There! He was free. Hastily, he pulled down his pants and underclothes, and released Enjolras’s erection to kiss him viciously. Enjolras made a noise of protest and surprise, but Grantaire palmed his erection, and he moaned.

“Do you want…?” he murmered , and Enjolras nodded frantically and it was all a blur after that… they kissed… he tried for Enjolras’s shirt again but only tore the buttons… Enjolras finally settled his hands on Grantaire’s erection… Grantaire was kissing his neck… then flipping him over… sliding into him… Enjolras yelped, and the sound felt like daggers in Grantaire’s brain, and he thought, no, stop, but Enjolras was saying “ _Don’t_ stop” or atleast that's what he was mouthing anyways, and who was he to tell otherwise. He began moving, fucking Enjolras, aware of nothing but the heat and the tightness and the stars on the sides of his vision, and the whimpers that faded to gasping breaths of his god beneath him.

He clutched Enjolras’s coat with one hand and a handful of blond curls with the other and pulled, god, this was… this was…, and Enjolras was writhing and squirming beneath him, moaning wantonly, moving against him. He felt as Enjolras finish beneath him, letting out a harsh breathy cry, muffled against the mattress he was pinned to.

It drove him over the edge – all too soon it was over and Grantaire collapsed as if he had been shot, onto Enjolras’s back. He laid there for a moment, his nose buried in the back of Enjolras’s neck. He could smell sweat, alcohol, and some sort of soap on his hair. He could feel the man’s haggard breathing below him, and absently stroked him, eyes feeling like they were filled with lead.

 _My Apollo. My lion._ He thought briefly, kissing the long neck beneath him, before dropping off into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing sex is not my forte. I hope that wasn't too awful to your senses!


	3. Part 3

If Grantaire had had his way, after that night, they would have woken up, fuzzy and hungover, but kissing in the sunbeams, confessing their love, perhaps reinacting the night before, albeit gentler, slower. And then they would be lovers! Meeting in daylight, going on picnics, drinking wine in restaurants, strolling side by side through the market, reading poetry to each other. He ached for it. He ached for Enjolras, hungered for him.

But it was not to be so. Instead of caresses and kisses, he awoke to angry sunlight drilling into his eyes.  His head felt like it had been inserted into a vice. The room smelled sour, of sex and booze.

 Enjolras was gone.

He did not mean to fuck Enjolras like a whore, not even bothering to strip him fully, treating him roughly, both of them reeking of alcohol and desperation. That was where Grantaire had ruined things, he decided, over the endless, perpetual bottle of wine he kept by his side during this entire mess. The fact that that very well might have been Enjolras’s first time was something that also filled him with unease. Grantaire had no proof, of course, but the man had never talked of women (nor men!) even casually before, and the way he had kissed, like he hadn’t quite known what to do with his mouth…

The wine didn’t help much, it never did, but when he was not drinking, more disturbing thoughts came to mind. What if Enjolras hadn’t wanted him? He had been three sheets to the wind… Had Grantaire taken advantage of him? Had he…? The word stubbornly came again and again, and he tried his best to brush it away. Grantaire would never hurt someone that way, much less his Apollo… never…

Grantaire hated himself.

He wanted so desperately to explain, to plead for forgiveness, but Enjolras carefully avoided him. Grantaire would see him, in the café or the library, sitting alone, or more often with others, and the second he sighted him, he would leave, and Grantaire would be rewarded with the sight of the back of a blond head, ducking out the door or up the stairs, or into the back room.

Grantaire never chased him. He felt enough like a predator already. He cared not for the Revolution, only for Enjolras, and was now denied both things. The Amis, tolerating him out of their leader’s strange indulgence, had no interest in him, either.  He attempted to throw himself into his studies (though with more than a little wine on the side). He had already gotten absolutely shitfaced three times in the week or so since it had happened, and on Grantaire’s legendary tolerance, that was saying something.

The days crawled by, and the weeks drudged with them.

He painted like a mad fiend, and was unsurprised at what his canvases wrought: Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras The plane of his nose. The curl of his hair. Even something so mudane as a landscape study turned into Enjolras – the blue of his eye the skys, the column of his fingers in trees.  It felt mad. It was mad.

Even the abstract, he swore he could see Enjolras there. He was probably going crazy. That, or it was the wine. Grantaire drank freely, excessively, desperately. He was sure he would pickle himself soon- that, or vomit until he died, but both seemed vastly more desireable than being alone with his thoughts.

It was late at night  when it happened – finals loomed ominously, and Grantaire was left alone in the studio he shared with several other students, painting feverishly. He was flushed and sweating and more than a little tipsy– there was a bottle of absinthe resting by his palette, and he had been dipping into it all evening. The wine was just not doing the job anymore. Every so often, he took a step back to survey his work, running a turpentine soaked hand through his dirty hair, only for it to resume the incessant creep over his forehead.

He sighed, Almost done. Just a few more hours, and then maybe he could get some sleep. He reached for the bottle, took a swig, grimaced briefly as his head tried to swim away from him, and then set back to his painting with the grim determination of a soldier charging a trench. His head was fuzzy and his eyes were starting to burn, but he knew he could finish this.

“Grantaire?”

The painter nearly jumped out of his skin, he dropped his paintbrush and dimly was aware of it clattering to the floor. He whirled around entirely too fast and almost set himself upon the floor with it. His jaw dropped.

Enjolras was standing in the studio’s doorway. He was dressed simply – white collared shirt, sleeves rolled up over the elbows, dark slacks. He took in the studio slowly – the canvases and half finished works lying about, his eyes resting for a moment longer on Grantaire’s corner of the shared space, where the many paintings of him blared out as evidence. Finally, looked at Grantaire almost expectantly, casually, as if he’d been asked to meet him here. He looked so good. He looked so… clean. Yes, Grantaire was biased and had been hitting the bottle, but Enjolras seemed to glow, to bring some light to the dingy studio.

Grantaire couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t _breathe._ He drank in the sight of the other man like a plant in a drought. His eyes burned. He stupidly felt like crying, and he was all too aware of how he looked, how he _was_ : dirty, dishelveled, reeking of turpentine and alcohol, paint all over him. Like shit. While this angel stood across from him. And he had… he had…

“I…I” Grantaire croaked. His voice sounded strange, raspy with the drink, the tears at the back of his throat, “Enjolras… I would… apologize… for what I did.” That was the best his brain would come up with, on such short notice, and he was kicking himself already for being so stupid. For that one night, and for continuing to be stupid. He had painted Enjolras, it was true. Over and over and over again. Some were not so blatant –landscapes, abstract studies, but there was enough essence of a certain golden haired man, proud and stern, to rouse suspicion.

Grantaire felt filthy. He knew Enjolras would surely be disgusted and leave. Right now he was looking carefully at Grantaire’s work, slowly examining each piece before finally moving to the enormous canvas Grantaire stood before. His eyebrows were already quirking up, although the rest of his expression was impassive. God.

His face softened, ”Grantaire, are these your paintings?” he asked, almost gently. It was a foreign tone to come out of his mouth, and Grantaire felt suddenly defensive.

“Do not mock me.” He said shortly, bending down to retrieve his paintbrush so that he might avoid the other man’s gaze.

“Grantaire, do you know why I’ve come here?” There it was again. That strange gentle tone. Grantaire would swear to the heavens above that his heart cracked right then and there.

 “To see a sad man? To know that as surely as I’ve ruined you, I have destroyed myself in the process?” Grantaire weezed. Enjolras was transformed into a blur as his eyes filled with tears. He had rehearsed this moment over and over and over in the past weeks, apologizing to Enjolras, and now he was fucking it all up. He was too tired, too dull at the moment, for this dammit, and Enjolras too fair, and Grantaire far too disgusting.

He covered his face with his hands, ashamed, still stupidly clutching the paintbrush. “I had to decide what to do.” Enjolras was saying, He heard footsteps, and was sure Enjolras had left, the thought which made his heart ache. A second later, hands were placed on his own.

“Grantaire. Grantaire. Look at me. Look at me.” Enjolras insisted, moving his hands downward, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. His face swam before him.  God. He was… He just _was._ He remembered calling him Apollo and the name would forever stick – how could it not, with the fine features, blue eyes, and golden hair?

Grantaire was torn between the desire to slink away from this man, and surge forward onto him, and it kept him rooted to the spot. He was startled into opening his eyes by one of Enjolras’s hands suddenly brushing his cheek. Was it his imagination, or was there a hazy look in the other man’s eye?

“Have you been drinking,” Enjolras said. Despite the wording, it was not a question. Grantaire fought a hysteric urge to laugh. Oh, _had_ he been drinking alright! Surely Enjolras could smell the absinthe from outside the room. Grantaire had been practically trying to pickle himself.

The hand on his cheek felt like a fire. He chuckled humorlessly. “Ever since I hurt you, I have always been drinking.” The second it was out of his mouth, Grantaire wanted to kick himself – Enjolras’s eyes went wide, and his hand disappeared from his cheek. He slowly closed his eyes, not wanting to see the results of his next words, falling freely from his mouth, “As much as I love you, I would have myself forget you, in hopes that you forget me and the pain I caused you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. “You are drunk! Look at me.” Enjolras said slowly.

Grantaire stubbornly kept his eyes closed. “I’m not drunk. But I wish I was. Life is unbearable otherwise.” He shook his head violently, and it threw him off balance and he swayed, but Enjolras grabbed him by the front of his jacket.

Enjolras made a small sound in his throat, and kissed him.

 Grantaire’s eyes flew open, and in that second the haze was cleared and he was aware of everything - the straight prow of Enjolras’s nose bumping his cheek, his lips, dry and hot, upon his own. Enjolras’s eyes were closed.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands – they were curled stiffly at his side. He didn’t know what do with his face, either, for that matter, which Enjolras quickly noticed, and pulled away. His stomach sank.

The blonde man was flushed, and looked almost sheepish, an expression Grantaire had never seen on his face before.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, and as he spoke, his face composed itself – he was once again Apollo, the remnants of a blush the only thing betraying that anything had gone amiss.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“I wanted you to stop talking.” His eyes were suddenly fierce.

Grantaire licked his lips and shifted nervously. “I spoke only the truth.” He said shakily, feeling uncomfortable under Enjolras’s gaze. They were far too close, he was nearly brushing against the other man, just standing here. He resolutely stared at the floor but could still feel Enjolras’s eyes boring through him, the heat emanating off him in waves. “I understand why you torture me so. I will never forgive myself for what I did to you. I cannot-“

A hand suddenly grabbed his jaw, and roughly jerked him round, forcing him to meet Enjolras’s eyes – wild, filled with fire. “I would hear no more.” Enjolras leaned in, and kissed him again, forcefully, his hand tight on Grantaire’s jaw as if he might try to escape.

This kiss was different than the last – no longer chaste – hungry, desperate. Grantaire broke free, and protested briefly “Enjolras, what-“

“I made my decision.” Enjolras murmered, and kissed him again as he opened his mouth to argue.

Grantaire was shocked to find himself kissing back, as if on autopilot. His hands raised up and snaked their way around Enjolras – one on the back of his neck, the other ascending his back. Enjolras was flush against him, and Grantaire could feel his arousal against his leg. They were moving backwards, Enjolras was shoving into him, kissing him, groping him at every opportunity, Grantaire was shaking, weaving, trying not to fall, and his brain was running overtime, _my god, what am I doing? What is he doing? what have I done to him?_ He finally managed to push Enjolras away, meaning to protest, to refuse, to ask for an explanation, anything, but instead something else gasped from his traitorous mouth, “Couch, in the studio.. over there…”

Enjolras bit him on the neck and shoved him to the dingy threadbare loveseat. Grantaire had time for his crazy brain to wonder about what other trysts had occurred on the poor thing and if anyone would walk in on them,  before he was rudely shoved down on and Enjolras was atop him with a look in his eye and then for a little while there was only Enjolras, no thoughts, just his mouth, his hands, his body, and that was fine with Grantaire – Enjolras kissed viciously, sloppily, paying no mind to the liquor that was surely on his tongue.

He didn’t know what he was doing – Grantaire felt lost, as if left out to sea. His head was humming and buzzing and the room was trembling and he was laying there useless and Enjolras was burning in his arms, burning against him. His skin was hot and his mouth was hotter and Grantaire was getting paint all over Enjolras, ruining his white shirt, oh god. 

Enjolras’s hands were fumbling at his hips, trying to pull down his pants and Grantaire got Enjolras’s white shirt open, ripping at the buttons, not caring and then somehow his pants were down and then they were half naked and his hand was on Enjolras’s cock and Enjolras was trying to grab him… then _did…_ and  the friction was unpleasant but wonderful and oh god what if someone came in-and Enjolras’s mouth on his shoulder neck ear saying “fuck me… oh please” but Grantaire knew he wouldn’t last that long and besides he knew he was too drunk for that so he kept the rhythm up, moving against the other man, pausing to spit on his hand, and tried to watch Enjolras’s face and god, it was better than anything in the world… money liquor anything, the way his eyes rolled back and his mouth opened and he said oh…oh….oh and bit down on Grantaire’s shoulder when he climaxed with a harsh groan, and it was Grantaire’s cue to follow with an aborted gasp.

Enjolras was limp and sweaty ontop of him, breathing heavily, mouth and eyes wide open. Grantaire’s head swam, both from the drink fully catching up to him and a fuzzy tiredness that always followed in the wake of orgasm.  He wrapped his arms around Enjolras, pulling him towards his chest. He could feel the other man looking at him, but he had no idea what to say to him, and his brain didn’t want to form a way to say it, so he stared at the ceiling instead. This quickly became painful as it proceeded to vibrate slightly, so he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms more firmly around the man atop him. Time went away for a while. Several blissful moments… minutes… hours… days…. of silence passed and he drifted.

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire! Are you _sleeping_?”

A hand lighted upon his cheek and he unwillingly surfaced, opening his eyes slowly. Enjolras was right there, looking down on him, his expression almost surly. His hair fell about his face, which was still slightly flushed. He was smudged with paint. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing that Grantaire had ever seen, and it gave him sudden courage.  
  
He extricated one arm from Enjolras’s back and brought it to his cheek, not without significant effort. Grantaire stroked him with his thumb, “My Apollo.” He murmured, “There has never been anything so lovely as you. All the gold in the world could not… could not… compare…” He clumsily fingered a lock of Enjolras’s hair, then patted him awkwardly on the cheek, losing his nerve. Had he really just said that? God, he was an idiot..

“Miracles do never cease – the cynic spouts poetry!” Enjolras replied, and amazingly, smiled. Grantaire’s heart leaped in his chest.

He closed his eyes again – looking at Enjolras now was like gazing straight into the sun. “I am sorry… for last time… You were drunk, I shouldn’t have-“

“Grantaire. No. Under that logic, it’s I who should be apologizing. You are drunk right now, aren’t you?”  
  
“No….” he murmured, shaking his head helplessly against the couch. It felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He could feel tears leaking out from under his eyelids and he was not proud, no, he was ashamed, but there was no helping him.

“Grantaire, look at me. Open your eyes dammit.”  
  
He reluctantly obliged, and Enjolras, after looking at him critically, hesistated, then kissed him on the forehead. “We will talk about this later. You are drunk and I am taking you home.”

Relief and something else better, indescribable, hit his stomach (“ _We! I am taking you home!”)_ , and Grantaire was aware he was grinning like an idiot all of a sudden. Enjolras surely noticed, he made a small sound that was almost a chuckle, and gingerly removed himself from Grantaire and the couch.

Grantaire did not move, only watched as Enjolras fussily cleaned himself as best he could with his shirttail and rearranged his clothing, his eyes drinking in the glimpses he was afforded- his legs, his ass… the smooth, flat plain of his stomach and chest…  He licked his lips, barely aware that his mouth had gone dry. A minute ago he had been ready to drop off to sleep… and now….

“Aren’t you going to dress yourself?” The blonde said curtly, though he looked away as if embarassed, and began to button his shirt, slowly and meticulously. Grantaire watched his long fingers move with a sort of wonder. His shirt, face, and neck were smeared with paint. Grantaire could even see some finger marks – where a hand had cupped, grabbed, touched. _His_ hand. He could hardly believe that that had been him.

“Grantaire.”

Hearing his name spurred him to action, and he sat up with some effort, pulling his pants up, and digging for his shirt. He managed that without much trouble but his hands were slow and clumsy, so Enjolras buttoned it for him hastily. Grantaire closed his eyes and strained to feel his fingertips touching his stomach. Enjolras shoved him into his jacket, and helped him to his feet.

His hand was warm on the small of Grantaire’s back (How does he do that?, he wondered)

“My apartment isn’t far from here.” Enjolras was saying. He was leading him to the door. The earth suddenly tilted on it’s axis while he moved.

Maybe I _am_ drunk, Grantaire thought, and chortled to himself. Old joke – you feel fine until you step off your barstool. He focused on Enjolras’s silent profile to distract him from his own feet. He was so close to him, _touching_ him even, his arm hooked around his neck and Enjolras’s hand at his back. He was still Apollo – proud, severe, beautiful, even now. Especially now.  
  
This must be a dream, he thought, suddenly, regretfully.

_At least it’s a good dream._  
  
Grantaire was barely aware of his surroundings as they traveled and had all but forgotten his own feet moving, one after the other, so focused was he on Enjolras. There was a dark smudge of oil paint marking his pale cheek. Grantaire knew as certain as the sky was blue and wine was  god’s gift to man, that if he looked at it under a magnifying glass it’s pattern would match the loops and swirls on one of his own fingertips.

He didn’t remember much else of that evening. Going up stairs. Falling into a bed. All the while keeping his eyes locked on that one spot of paint on his Apollo’s cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire woke up when the sun decided to stab his eyes with icepicks. He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head… Its fiber felt unfamiliar in his hand.

This is not my bed.

_Wait._

He sat bolt upright, and gazed around, as he remembered where he was. Though this was Enjolras’s quarters, the man was nowhere to be seen. This room of his apartment was not so different from Grantaire’s – bigger, yes, and less shabby, but it contained the same essential composition- bed desk bookshelf chair. The only difference was the amount of light coming through the windows (Grantaire had only one), and the fact that the shelves, and a large table, were completely covered with a formidable detritus of books, paper, and writing utensils.

He waited a moment, wondering if Enjolras would surface, then rose up from the bed. A quick exploration of the rest of the apartment confirmed both that Enjolras was certainly not here (bad) and that Grantaire’s hangover, though quickly becoming a rampaging headache, would not be unusually painful. (good)

 It was only, when returning to sit on the bed, he noticed a pitcher and a glass on the nightstand table. A small piece of paper was underneath, reading simply:

_Will return soon._

Grantaire poured himself a glass (the pitcher was filled with water), and sat back on the bed to wait. He nervously combed at his hair with his fingers and plucked at his clothing, feeling extremely self conscious and steadily losing his nerve. He wanted to leave, but instead focused on drinking the water pitcher. He did not have long to wait – he was halfway through his third glass before he heard a rattling of keys at the door and Enjolras let himself in.

Enjolras had bathed and changed clothes – he looked absolutely pristine. He carried a few packages in his arms, and smiled slowly at Grantaire as he set them on the table. Grantaire was floored by his presence, and was aware he was staring, but was unable to do anything else. Enjolras broke the silence:

“You’re still here.”

“Did you expect otherwise?”

“I did not know what I was expecting.” Was the even reply. Enjolras turned his head away, changing the subject. “Do you like sweets, Grantaire? I brought some pain au chocolat for the both of us.”

Grantaire’s stomach flip flopped – both at this gesture, and the thought of eating at the moment. Emboldened, he rose to his feet and stood beside Enjolras.

“Last night.” He began, hesistated, then mustered his courage, “Last night was not a dream.”

“No.” said Enjolras, turning to look at him.

“Last night was not a mistake?” here the question was painful, and Grantaire was aware of how pathetic he sounded. Enjolras took his hand and looked him over carefully before responding, but his voice was still strong.

“No.”

Grantaire stared at him, bug-eyed, and struggled for words, finally fumbling over a few,

“You must know then…My devotion is true. I will follow you anywhere.” _My Apollo,_ he wanted to add, and so much more, but Enjolras had crossed the space between them and was kissing him and he was kissing back and they were back on the bed, shedding their clothes as they went, and he would do it the right way this time.

“Can I-“ he began but Enjolras was nodding, nodding and kissing him and it was slower this time, better in a way, and Grantaire showed Enjolras where to put his hands, his mouth, and they moved together, lost in time, lost on this bed, and Revolution was just a whisper on the breeze and they just university boys and Grantaire was slow, and Grantaire was careful, up until the end where he pinned Enjolras beneath him and kissed him furiously to match the quickening thrusts of his body and Enjolras downright _mewled_ below him, he almost _sobbed_ and wrapped his legs around his waist to bring them even closer.

Afterwards, Enjolras lay still -struck dumb, staring up at the ceiling with sweat on his brow and a faint smile on his lips and Grantaire, laying next to him, felt full to bursting and took this moment in his mind, treasured it like a masterpiece, because a speechless Enjolras was like a solar eclipse or a comet, let alone made speechless by _him,_ and may not come again in a lifetime.

He brushed aside a golden curl and kissed his lion on the temple, unable to resist a grin and boast. “Now that, mon ami, is passion.”

“Now I understand what all the poets were talking about…” Enjolras said slowly, still viewing the ceiling, then after a moment, turned to look at Grantaire. His composure had recovered – he was once again Apollo, filled with that same fire – only, this time, it was directed towards Grantaire.

Grantaire’s heart wanted to explode. He was surprised it didn’t. He kissed Enjolras – this time on the lips. His body was sated for the moment, but there was much to be said about the art of kissing. And he could kiss this man forever. Enjolras, was, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. They were in no hurry. Time waxed and waned. His headache was forgotten. The pastries were forgotten.

It was only later, much later, that Enjolras raised his head and cursed, complaining that he had a class. Despite Grantaire’s objections, he would not consent to skipping it, and fought his way out of the other man’s arms and out of the bed, fumbling for his clothes.

“There is paint on you.” Grantaire said, sitting up to watch him dress with extreme interest.

“And you are to blame for that, I am sure.” Enjolras responded coolly, as he deftly buttoned his shirt and adjusted his collar.

Grantaire frowned slightly, chastized. “Wait.” He rose from the bed, fully nude, and stood infront of Enjolras, the slight intake of breath as he did so from the blonde not escaping his notice. Wetting a finger in his mouth, he placed it on Enjolras’s jaw and resolutely scrubbed until the mark was gone.

“There.” He breathed.

It was only then that Grantaire noticed how close their faces were. The light in Enjolras’s eyes and the unsteady breaths coming out of his parted lips. Arousal pooled in his stomach.

It was short work for him to bury his hands in his hair and drag his mouth to his for a searing kiss. For several long moments they grappled, but then Enjolras jerked away, both his hands coming up to hold Grantaire back as he surged forward to kiss him again.

“I have class.” Enjolras protested. His face was flushed, yet he spoke evenly, “Come to the Café Musain tonight. _Sober.”_ He added sharply.

“You expect too much of me.”said Grantaire.

“You waste yourself.” Enjolras retorted, instantly stern, and without a second glance, gathered his books, leaving Grantaire alone in his apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

True to his word – the first night he showed up as fresh and sober as a daisy, and drank only a few glasses of wine at the meeting itself. Enjolras gave him a few fleeting looks, but he was otherwise occupied talking to other patrons of the café. Grantaire would admit he was a bit bored by the proceedings – it always was more exciting when he was drunk – but he contented himself watching Enjolras stomp about and bantered spiritedly with Pontmercy and Courfeyac in the meantime. Both of them noticed the change in his behavior, and began giving him hell for it.

Finally, Enjolras came to his table, “Grantaire, a word.”

“Our winecask has been behaving himself! Look at him – sober and actually washed! No doubt he has finally found a mistress who puts up with his ugly face! Buy this man a drink!” Courfeyac chortled, and winked. He had picked up Grantaire’s slack and become quite drunk in the process.

Enjolras frowned fleetingly at his friend, but said nothing, only grabbed Grantaire’s upper arm and dragged him out of the room. Grantaire could feel the heat of his hand through his sleeve, and even now, it still thrilled him. He led him out into the street and into the nearest alleyway, and finally released him. It was dark and he could not make out his face.

“I did not want to be overheard.” He said quickly as explanation, “Are you sober?”

“More or less.” Grantaire said quietly, the stealth of this unnerving him slightly. Enjolras sighed, then kissed him suddenly, almost viciously, drawing away before Grantaire could even respond.

“I can taste the wine on you. Barely.” Enjolras said. There was a smile in his voice. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile back, amazed at his good fortune. Suddenly Enjolras was pressing something into his hand. It was a key.

“My apartment.” Enjolras continued. His face was unreadable in the gloom. “If you would go now, I will meet you there. It won’t be long. If… that is what you…” He added, the question obvious in his tone. Grantaire was sure he was blushing… had to be. He damned the dark. He pocketed the key.

“Yes.” Grantaire said, suddenly feeling very awake, and his pants far too tight. He grabbed for Enjolras, and pulled him in for a kiss. Their noses bumped but once he had his lips on the other man’s, it was searing, hot, desperate. He was pushed backwards - he felt the brick wall cool against his back, and Enjolras hot and flush against him.

“Yes,” Grantaire murmered, in between kisses, sliding a hand down Enjolras’s side to cup his ass and pull him in closer, while the other was occupied under his shirt. “Yes.”

 Enjolras moaned low in his throat – it was muffled by Grantaire’s mouth, and ground against him.

Fuck it, I’ll take him right here, Grantaire thought fleetingly, and started fumbling with the waistband of Enjolras’s pants. That seemed to awaken something in Enjolras, and he stiffened suddenly,  and turned his face away, panting.

“Not… here.”

Grantaire’s hand receded, although he did laviciously bestow several kisses on his neck, feeling Enjolras shiver beneath his touch, before drawing away. He wished he could see better – all the light in the alley afforded him was a dim silhouette.

Enjolras touched his hand. He spoke with effort., “Go now. I won’t be long.”

Grantaire smiled,   “As you say, Apollo.”

It was a testament to what had just passed in between them that Enjolras did not reprimand him for calling him that – Grantaire knew he _hated_ it. Instead, he shook his head.

Ruefully, Grantaire thought. It was hard to tell in the dark.

“Go.”


	6. Chapter 6

It could not last.

Grantaire knew it could not, deep in his cynic’s heart, but he wanted to believe anything to the contrary.

It had been blissful at first. Their arrangement quickly brought on a routine. Grantaire would join Enjolras and the Amis at the café in the evenings, as he always had, and more nights than not, would join Enjolras in his bed.

He understood discretion initially but when the days turned to weeks and Enjolras wouldn’t even awknowledge him in public, amongst his friends, it felt akin to a punch in the gut. The most he could hope for was a cursory glance, and Enjolras, ever the politician, would only shoot him one every so often.

The other men were not stupid, and despite the illusion of discretion Enjolras enjoyed so, Grantaire was aware of the knowing looks that passed between them, the brief guffaws whenever they were talking together, the idling wonderings of Courfeyac. He did not care – but he knew Enjolras would. He began to drink again, with flourish, to swamp this feeling of inadequacy in his chest – and the drinking brought an unexpected benefit – Enjolras would publicly reprimand him and, when he was particularily rowdy, kick him out of the café.

Grantaire had a schoolboy complex with this – any attention was better than no attention at all, and so his behavior deteriorated much after this. He also found another reason to drink – the revolution was happening. It was real and it was happening. He may have been steadily getting shitfaced in all the meetings and not paying attention and generally causing a ruckus but nothing could deny the weapons and ammunition that began to pile up in Enjolras’s apartment, in back rooms, the impassioned speeches happening in daylight, on the street, the laid out plans, talk of a barricade.

. The novelty of fucking had worn off to Enjolras and instead of laying still in bliss post sex his new favorite thing to do was whisper in Grantaire’s ear of revolution, of the rise of the citizens, the fall of the bourgeoise. No more hunger. No more pain. He would hold him and talk of these things – Revolution, Patria, and it was tireless and neverending and it made Grantaire’s heart and head hurt because the way he talked about it was like a lover.

Why would you talk about another lover when you had one in your arms? He wanted to scream one night, absinthe heavy in his stomach and head, Enjolras in his ear, and it was Patria, patria. Sometimes he would kiss him to shut him up. Othertimes he would try and fall asleep, but whenever Enjolras noticed, he would not be pleased.

He did not come out and say that he was in love, to Enjolras, for fear it would shatter whatever precarious relationship they had forged, and talking to him, touching him, even if only for a little while… that was all he had, and if that was all he could get… well… Even so, there was no way Enjolras couldn’t have known. Grantaire knew he didn’t feel the same for him – why else was he kept hidden from his friends? Grantaire would put Enjolras above anything. He knew that Enjolras would not do the same for him.

All this he could tolerate but he knew worse was coming and it filled him with black dread. The barricade, the fight… He knew the people would not rise to help them – or, if they would, it would be far too late. He knew Enjolras was doomed.  He knew no matter what he did or said, Enjolras would fly straight on this path he had assigned himself. He was madly, irrevocably, in love with the man. He had been before they began this arrangement, and it only made it worse.

There was nothing Grantaire could do. He knew the quickest way to get cast out of Enjolras’s bed was to argue with him about it (which had happened, more than a few times, when he was far too drunk to hold his tongue) The first time it happened he went sobbing in the streets, made it halfway to his apartment, and passed out in an alleyway – it was a miracle he awoke with everything still in his pockets.

He tried to stay away from Enjolras, he _tried¸_ and took to the studio again but he was weak and powerless and so in _love_ , damn it all, and ended up back at the Café Musain after only three days, back in Enjolras’s apartment, later that night, Enjolras pinning him against the door as he kissed him hard and bit his neck and whispered, “Where were you Grantaire?” And he wanted to cry with joy but instead pressed his hands to the body before him.

He was lost. He was so so lost. So he painted. And drank. And fucked Enjolras. But mostly drank. Enjolras did not condone drunkenness, and if Grantaire was too far gone, he would leave him at the café, or at his own apartment.

 Grantaire attended the meetings, but far from his rowdy, excitable self, now he was liken to stay to his own table, sighing pronouncedly whenever Enjolras was closeby. It was very obvious, judging by the guffaws that appeared on occasion, but he did not care. Enjolras was, of course, oblivious.

 

 

“Why do you waste yourself so?” He asked him, one night when Grantaire had managed to outdo himself and take on what seemed to be the bar’s entire stock of absinthe, as he led a careening Grantaire back to his apartment, fending off his wandering hands. “You are not a stupid man. You dim yourself. Why?”

“Your meetings are boring.” Grantaire said slowly, trying out each word before letting it go, grinning like a lunatic.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras snapped, his voice gone sharp, “This is not a joke. Why do you stay then? Do you not care for the Revolution? The people? We are trying to change this country, Grantaire.”

“I care for none of it!” Grantaire said with a flourish, grinning stupidly.

“Then why do you stay?” The edge was still on his tongue.

“I stay.” Grantaire said simply, with effort. His tongue was quite heavy in his mouth. Heavier than his feet, even. He closed his eyes and leaned against Enjolras and let the world fade away, not coming to until his was dumped unceremoniously in a bed.

“Goodnight Grantaire.” His voice was like a knife.

“Apollo… stay…” Grantaire moaned. He was pathetic and he hated himself. His eyes were already fluttering closed.

He heard Enjolras sigh and kneel beside him. Lips pressed briefly against his forehead, a hand touched his hair, then withdrew.

“Goodnight Grantaire.” This time, without the edge.

Grantaire heard him leave, then sobbed into the mattress until he was retching. He vomited spectacularily, then passed out.

And so it went.


	7. Chapter 7

It is almost the end.

Grantaire wants time. That’s all he wants. He is an artist, but it would take years to capture the way Enjolras’s hair glows like a halo in the morning sunlight, or the lazy, indulgent smile he sometimes shows Grantaire, made all the more special because he is sure Enjolras never shows it to anyone else. He is beautiful, jaw droppingly, heart-achingly, beautiful. What painting could capture the fire in his eyes, the set to his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw? And what about the things he can’t paint? The way it seems his hands were built exactly so, to fit perfectly in curve of Enjolras’s neck and skull. The way their bodies fit together as if they were cast from corresponding molds? What of those?

I would throw myself in the Seine if he wouldn’t have me, he decides resolutely. These are the thoughts that cross through his mind in the mornings when he is allowed to spend the night and chances to wake up before Enjolras, before he is kicked out for the day.

He is running out of time. The room is filled with weapons, ammunition. There is a tension at the meetings. It won’t be long now.

 

 

 

Grantaire watched (and egged on, he would not lie) when Marius came in the Café one night, arguing the case of love against Enjolras, who crushed his argument firmly. Or, perhaps, was it a stalemate? The mood in the Café was an odd one – jubilant and sad – or, perhaps that was just Grantaire.

Later that night, in his apartment, Enjolras and him went at it like animals, ripping their clothing, not speaking aside from gasps and cries. Grantaire was angry, and Enjolras was filled with a manic energy.

Afterwards, spent, Grantaire held him and they lay together, bodies slotted together like twin parenthesis, thinly veiled in sweat.

“Did you mean it?” he said quietly.

“Hmm?” Enjolras murmered, sounding close to sleep.  
  
“Marius.” Grantaire finishes simply. He winces at the way Enjolras stiffens suddenly.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand in his, laces their fingers together, squeezes. He says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

Grantaire falls asleep.

 

 

 

The night before the barricade went up they were together for the last time. It was slow, surreal with what was happening. Grantaire took his time, kissing every inch of Enjolras that he could reach, lavishing as much attention on him as he could. For what would come tomorrow?

Enjolras says nothing to betray his nerve but his mannerisms give him away, the fact that he allows Grantaire to stay gives him away, and the fact that he lets him grip him so tightly gives him away.

He had drank only two glasses of wine and it is hurting him, to be this sober at a time like this. He clings to Enjolras desperately and mouths the words he wants to say against his skin.  
  
 _Run away with me. Run away with me. Run away with me._

He knows better than to even whisper them, he knows Enjolras would never consider such a thing, but the idea is compelling.

_Run away with me._  
  
When Grantaire first met Enjolras, he was sure he was looking at an angel. Now he knows better – he was looking at a god. Why would a mortal be so foolish, to fall in love with a god?  
  
Enjolras does not run. And Grantaire will follow Enjolras.

 

 

 

 

The girl Eponine is dead. The boy Gavroche is dead. Grantaire sees the relevation in all their faces, finally. Marius weeps openly, there is a tear in Enjolras’s eye, and shock and horror is in every face - he knows that it is real to them, now, finally.

He goes to find a bottle.

They all do.

It is a glum night in the café, as they wait for the morning, and the National Guard to put a standstill to their revolution. The barricade seems so pathetic from inside. What could they have been thinking? Inside, for now, they drink, and talk quietly, but the gloom makes conversation difficult.

Still, they are filled with pride. They will not leave.

Grantaire seeks out Enjolras, finding him easily with his red coat. He is seated alone at a table, nursing a cup of wine and staring fixedly off into the distance. His face was dirty. It broke Grantaire’s heart, right then and there, to see him like that.

“You have something on your face.” Grantaire said quietly.

Enjolras moved as if to stand up, and his mouth opens.

“Wait.” Grantaire protested, dipping his finger in his mouth and rubbing at a spot high on Enjolras’s cheekbone. He smiled wanly. “There.”

Enjolras does nothing for a moment, only stares at him, and then a tiny smile quirked on his lips, not matching the grave look in his eyes. He touched Grantaire’s cheek tentatively, and then let his hand rest there. Grantaire brought his hand up to rest on Enjolras’s.

They stood there for a minute, gravely regarding each other, and then Grantaire carefully removed the hand from his cheek, and kissed the palm, slowly and deliberately. He collected his nerve.

“You waste yourself.” Grantaire spat. He could see the anger and hurt and surprise flare up in Enjolras’s eyes, see his mouth open to protest, but he shook his head.

That was all he needed. He turned, feeling tears threaten, and sought a bottle to drown them in. He could feel Enjolras’s gaze, hard and angry, on his back.

It was over.

 

 

 

 

It is suddenly quiet and still. It wakes Grantaire up.

He is roused with a groan – his neck has kinked up from falling asleep against the wall.

For one second he is at a sort of peace – he can see the dust motes in the sunlight streaming through the café window. Everything is still, all activity on the barricade, visible out the window, has ceased. There is no sound but a creaking from upstairs.

The barricade.

Enjolras.

Adrenaline surges through him like a bullet and Grantaire is suddenly alert, up on his feet. Enjolras.

He has to find him. Please, don’t let him be dead. Please. He races upstairs, agile and coordinated as he has never been and never will be again.

Please.  
Please.

Here is Enjolras, proud and stern, the sunlight a halo on his hair, covered in scrapes and dirt, and still, he is like an angel, a god, but Grantaire knows now, he is a man.

Here is the National Guard, weapons cocked, the death hanging off of them.

And here, enter stage left, Grantaire. The cynic, reborn, in four short words.

“Do you permit it?”

All Grantaire wanted was time; he has time to see the smile Enjolras gives him, the blazing look in his eye, and time enough to return one of his own. Time enough to feel his hand on his, fingers lacing together. Time enough  to hear twelve safeties on twelve rifles click to the firing position, time enough to hear twelve fingers pull twelve triggers.

He does not close his eyes.

He does not let go of Enjolras’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize rifles in that time would probably not have safeties... however I had to take that artistic liberty. Thanks again for reading, I only hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feel free to leave me feedback if you're so inclined, good, bad, what have you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wasting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/753151) by [cellecelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellecelle/pseuds/cellecelle)




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